


A Trick of the Eye

by GalacticGoat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1800s America, Alternate Universe, Guns, Humanstuck, M/M, Misgendering, Period-Typical Sexism, Swearing, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticGoat/pseuds/GalacticGoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This may come as a blow to you personally, but there’s no time better than the present, I guess,” he shrugs.</p><p>“What is it?” Your mouth is growing dry in worry. He tugs at his collar in discomfort one last time.</p><p>“Madam Crocker is a genuinely wicked person. Rotten to her slimy center. A murderer if I’ve ever known one.”</p><p>You blink.</p><p>“I already knew that.” The waiter stops in his tracks to stare at you.</p><p>“What?” He asks, dumbfounded.</p><p>“She’s not even my actual grandmother,” you venture further.</p><p>He slowly leans closer to you.</p><p>“<i>What?</i>” He repeats, bewilderment stamped across his entire being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pistols and Pendants

One had to ponder whether the general public was sensible to the fact that women (or alternatively, female-bodied people) did indeed have ribcages. Your habiliments suggest that the answer is a resounding “no.”

You furrow your brow and purse your lips in a very unlady-like manner (not that you mind) as the servant draws the lace of your corset to greater extremes. The breath pushed from your lungs never quite reestablishes itself, and your arms tremble from the force you conceal in your grip upon the chair you use to keep upright. She pulls harder, leaning backwards with all her weight until the lace will give no further, then moves in to affix everything in place. There’s bated silence ringing through the room as she winds a tape measure around your bound waist.

“Ah. From a 28 inch waist to 23.” The servant clicks her tongue in disappointment.

“Ought to find a way to work towards at least 20 in due time,” she comments, placing the tape measure down to reach towards the resting place of your evening gown. ‘ _Aye_ _, if one feels the urge to experience death by lack of air, then one knows where to look_ ,’ you resentfully think to yourself, keeping a feigned smile present upon your lips.

Once the tight scratch with the corset has been fully dealt with, the remainder of the process is smooth sailing. The servant bustles around and equips you with your gown for the evening’s festivities: a shimmering, periwinkle hoop dress with bared shoulders and ruffles adorning the breast.

The color appeals to you. The outfit does not.

An elaborate silver pendant is strung upon your throat before you are shuffled in front of the full-length mirror to observe the results of a long hour of dressing.

Alien curves flare like warning signals in your gaze. The swooping skirt sways as you reluctantly obey the servant’s gesture for you to rotate around and observe all your angles. The gentle bend of your jaw and the firmly fixed hair piled atop your head catch your eye, but not for the reasons they should. You have to halt your subconscious motions of wringing your skirt between your hands in agitation moments before they occur.

“You look almost akin to Madam Crocker when dressed to be handsome as such,” the servant offers from behind you, arms crossed in satisfaction at her work. You truly hope you do not actually look like Madam Crocker-- genetics played no part in any similarities of the features in both you and her, either way.

“Thank you,” you grit out, tone deceptively delighted. “Grandmother makes quite the pretty picture.”

“Nearing 60 and not a gray hair or wrinkle in sight!” The servant laughs, bolstered by your answer.

You wonder if your response-- an airy giggle-- seems as superficial and strained to her as it is to you.

 

* * *

 

The cobblestone street must have been washed prior to the party’s beginning. Your pumps remain free of streaks of mud and manure as you glide to the mansion’s towering entrance. Despite Madam Crocker’s insistence to the public that you reside in her home nowadays, the truth is that you inhabit a modest house on the skirts of the city. You prefer it that way, to be frank.

Your carriage driver, grim-faced and rushed in his mannerisms, gives two quick raps to the door before backing up a respectable distance.

The door slides open to reveal another man, a butler, who nods towards the carriage driver before bowing back to allow you inside. You automatically voice your appreciation to both men, a habit you picked up from your father (bless his departed soul), and sweep through the doorway.

The party is as crowded as you had presumed. Bows, curtsies, “how do you do”s, “I have been doing _splendidly_ , much obliged for asking”s; the formality could overreach any insider or outsider into seeing the real reasoning behind such a gathering. The woman of the hour (or perhaps, the woman of _every_ hour) stands prim and proper at the front and center, a shock of fuschia in a sea of pastel and black. Her hooded eyes slide to meet yours as you stroll into the room. There is no glimmer of welcome nor familiarity in them, only disinterest. Her mask remains as firm and unyielding as the day you met by unsavory complexion. As she turns to resume exchanging pleasantries with the gentleman beside her, you wonder if the unexpected draft in the room is a mere figment of your imagination.

Beyond the uncomfortable welcoming reception from Madam Crocker, the evening’s mood swells and retracts like any other party. The guests are sociable, donning their elaborate robes in a subtle game of one-uppery, and providing easy, complaisant conversation. Your mastery of outgoingness, formerly genuine and now a well-practiced farce, helps you coax your way through the night. Companions of the gentlemen, wives and mothers, wander their way over to you to compliment your dress, your hair, and “such immaculate posture, my goodness, you truly are stunning!” You resign yourself to the accompanying broiling of anxiousness that has become far too familiar since the day anyone’s gaze was able to distinguish that you had a waistline.

With the first utterance of “marriage” you excuse yourself, flashing an insincere smile before hurrying away. You spot a waiter sporting a tray of some sort of alcohol and against your better judgement, stride towards him.

“May I grab one of these?” You ask the waiter, pointing towards an unassuming cup. His eyes are focused on the crowd, clearly occupied with other mental matters.

“I don’t know why you’d expect me to send you off,” he shrugs. “It’s the loathsome job I was handed. To assume that I could practice any sort of control over who and who doesn’t get the damn drink would be more generous than handing me ten dollars to spend of my own free accord--” he finally turns to look at you, and his expression morphs into a strange blend of intrigue and horror.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Oh?” you echo.

“Are you…” He trails off, subconsciously tugging at the collar of his (rather raggedy) suit. You wait a long, weighted moment before realizing he will not continue unless prompted. At a loss as to what else to do, you gesture for him to keep asking.

“...Miss Egbert?” He finishes his question, burgundy eyes weighted with weariness. If he had wound his heel down on your foot and twisted it, you would have relished it more than his query.

“Er. Yes,” you affirm, inexplicable bile in your throat.

He falls silent again, gears and mindful mechanics churning behind his forehead. You can tell that your presence has some importance to him; he has something in train. You cannot say that you are too eager to find out what his scheme is, however.

“Back to the question at hand, may I please have one of your drinks?” you try again, forgoing an attempt at friendly exchanges for bluntness.

“It’s kind of improper for a lady, but who am I to give a damn and stop you?” He finally answers, moving the tray closer to you. You trace the dark circles under his eyes, and contemplate what he is hiding from you.

“Thank you,” you shyly pluck a cup from the platter and whirl around to hustle off.

You down the contents in one gulp and place the cup on a stand to the side as you meander towards Madam Crocker. The darkening ambience within the room suggests lateness in the evening, and with lateness comes an endless stream of delicious viands for dinner-- food is a specialty of the Betty Crocker Brand, of course. At all meals during festivities, you are expected to be by Madam Crocker’s side… Not that either of you derive any sort of pleasure from the interactions. They are less for personal sake, and more for the public’s.

At least some of the bitter, warm drink in your system will keep you protected from the chill that seems to ooze from her aura. You are tempted to go back to grab a second, for good measure.

“Madam Crocker,” you call as you approach, wavering as her sly eye fixes itself on you, and she turns to inspect you with a raised brow.

“Yes?”

“I believe that it is late enough that we ought to consider feeding our guests; they must be getting famished,” you explain, cautiously picking your way through your sentence. She gives a nod.

“That’s a wise call,” she agrees, though the tone of her voice says otherwise. You notice the elderly, well-dressed man practically clinging to her left side. She must have discovered her next target.

“I’ll send the butler to start directing guests to the dining room,” she offers, already raising a slender finger to gesture him over.

“Actually,” a third voice chimes in, “there’s one last matter to settle beforehand.”

The sound of a pistol cocking is only heard due to its incongruous presence within the room.

“Pardon the interruption,” the waiter from earlier sneers with sarcasm, caparisoned with a gun that is aimed directly at you.

‘ _…All the alcohol in the world would not have been enough preparation for this_ ,’ you think as the entire room freezes. The waiter struts closer towards your group, deriving some sort of pleasure from the suspense.

“Alright, harridan, listen up,” he begins. Not even a blink is relinquished from Madam Crocker as the waiter insults her.

“We’ve decided that despite mass consensus stating that the only good Crocker is a dead Crocker, we’re going to indulge ourselves a little differently tonight.”

“...‘We’?” Madam Crocker repeats. The waiter grins, as if he were waiting for her to ask. He tilts his head, and countless platters crash to the ground, followed by the clicking of armed pistols.

“Background checks for employees might be a pain in the ass, but God _damn_ would they have saved you a ton of trouble,” he laughs, tipsy on his own power.

“But reverting back to the point,” he waggles a finger on his free hand, “here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to exit this mansion with the company of Miss Egbert--” a punch to your throat (but not for the reason one would think) “-- and you’re going to sit and watch, for now. Try anything, and we’ll shoot her--” a stab to your abdomen (but not for the reason one would assume) “--right here. Right now.” He emphasizes himself by creeping towards you, and lazily pressing the muzzle of the pistol to your temple. You stand rigid, mouth sealed shut.

Madam Crocker remains silent. Her jaw juts out with vexation, yet not a line of worry for your safety has bothered to make an appearance. She’s capable of many things, yet pretending to be a concerned grandmother is certainly not present upon the list.

“Take her.” Her voice is sharp and concise, like audible lightning. The stunned guests of the room all whip their dinner-plate-sized eyes towards her in startlement.

“It would be my pleasure,” the waiter growls, wrapping his other arm around your neck, and forcing you to stumble backwards to keep pace as he haltingly steps towards the entrance. The pistol feels like ice against your skin.

Madam Crocker is rooted to the spot, staring directly at you in disappointment at the trouble you have given her. You search deep within, and cannot find it in yourself to give half a damn for her disdain.

You stumble as your ankle catches on the frame of the door while backing out, and the waiter is forced to bend slightly to catch you mid-trip. He flashes what one could mistake for a look of concern towards you as you splutter out in pain and surprise, yet his determined, sly look has resumed itself in less than a moment.

He waits patiently right outside, muttering the names of each of his accomplices as they follow him through the doorway in a similar fashion. You lose count of how many there are, too focused on the fuschia figure at the end of the great room. Only when you feel him nod beside you, do you pull your stare away from her and onto him.

He kicks a leg up and prods his foot around until the tip catches on the door itself. You fidget in embarrassment and discomfort towards the close proximity between you, still pressed flush to his chest.

“Enjoy your dinner!” He crows with a vicious smile before propelling the door shut with all the force wound up in his tense leg.

The instant the door slams shut with booming finality, he releases you from his grip, and clasps your hand with his now-free one. He bends to look directly into your eyes.

“Now, we fucking run.”

He yanks your arm with an obscene amount of gusto and urgency-- a strange combination-- as he follows the quickly-escaping band of misfits. You make it about ten feet before breathlessness reminds you of your unfortunate evening garb, yet you refuse to cave in entirely to the one particular garment causing your trouble until the mansion’s light is unable to reflect off any nearby buildings.

“Can’t breathe,” you finally wheeze, struggling to keep pace as you kick off your shoes to compensate for speed. The waiter glances back to survey you, then slows to a halt upon the sight of your frazzled appearance. The alley way’s gloom serves as solace as you have a moment to heave against constricting fabric and whalebone.

“I forgot that denying the existence of internal organs is the most recent trend in clothing,” he grumbles, reaching to swipe a stray hair from its spot hanging over your face in a manner that is far too tender. The gesture could have been touching, if not for the pistol present in his other hand. You pointedly ignore the cogitations that arise when looking at it.

“I did not really get a say in what I was expected to wear tonight, for the record,” you finally pant your reply. You don’t have the energy to be appalled at the sweat stringing its way down the bridge of your nose.

You both freeze when you hear enraged shouts in a nearby street.

“We’ll slow down again once we’re not in close neighborhood to Crocker,” he informs you before insistently pulling at your hand again. You suck in as deep an inhale as possible before nodding to follow.

He urges you down a tangle of streets and defiles, twisting back and forward, nonsensical in pattern and route. The game of cat and mouse is warm; a few missteps nearly lead to a scrape with one of Madam Crocker’s manservants, yet the waiter seizes you by the shoulders and yanks you back to the shadows in the nick of time. The resulting string of swears that flow from his tongue like a particularly vivacious stream leave you blushing furiously to the tips of your ears-- never in your life had you heard such free vulgarity.

The unbound integrity behind such crude words is a gulp of fresh air.

The second time you both cease your hurried pace comes significantly later. The waiter winds to a stop by a street side, lips twisting as he notes the sogginess and tattering of your stockings. The streets were riddled with plashes and set in rough stone, what did he expect? He doesn’t acknowledge your state of dress out loud, opting to explain his plans instead.

“Now we can gain recruit and walk the rest of the distance. We’ve wormed our way out from Crocker’s hair, and I don’t think you’re too keen on collapsing from exertion.” His hand’s grasp stays firm on your wrist. He must expect you to bolt.

“Okay,” you consent. He grunts and begins to usher you down the street, choosing to stay silent rather than chatter.

For the first time this hectic evening, you have the opportunity to truly observe this stranger as you walk.

His intimidating height is nicely complimented by broad shoulders and a sturdy gait. The clothes that drape his frame-- a ratty suit jacket with an accompanying tie, dress pants, an off-white dress shirt, a black vest, and scuffed shoes-- are rumpled from repeated usage. His hair, chopped fairly close to his scalp, is a rich brown that reminds you of crisp Tuesday mornings dedicated to making chocolate confectioneries with your father. A powerful nose and brooding gaze give him a perpetual scowl. Somehow, that is extremely suiting for him. His skin is darkened by sun-baked days, leaving you wondering what sort of job he must have worked prior to becoming a waiter.

You have been doing quite a great deal of pondering in regards to him in these past few hours, haven’t you.

“You know,” you chance a conversation, “I knew something was amok the moment our gazes met at the party.” The waiter processes your words before rolling his eyes.

“It doesn’t deserve much merit if you smelt the rat, but didn’t bother to fucking tell anyone,” he rasps, another explicative slipping past his lips as naturally as breathing.

“If I had known about the gun, I might have been a bit more willing to voice my worries-- otherwise, they would amount my suspicions to hysteria… They always do,” you try to explain yourself. The waiter bobs his head in understanding. He does not have much to answer with in return. The trek continues, with you focusing on keeping your head upright and straight, as he slouches and glares at any passerby. His grip on your hand is still tight.

Unexpectedly, he quietly clears his throat to call for your attention. You tilt your head to look at him.

“I understand that this whole event has probably left you furious at me and my uh, _associates_... I’m really sorry that you got hampered in the crossfires of this chafe, Miss Egbert.”

‘ _Stop calling me Miss,_ ’ a voice snaps in the back your mind.

“But,” he interrupts your thoughts, “I pray you understand that this was necessary. We’ve been struggling through schemes for quite a while, and you’ll be the key component to our goal.”

“And…?” You needle him for a better explanation. He hesitates.

“This may come as a blow to you personally, but there’s no time better than the present, I guess,” he shrugs.

“What is it?” Your mouth is growing dry in worry. He tugs at his collar in discomfort one last time.

“Madam Crocker is a genuinely wicked person. Rotten to her slimy center. A murderer if I’ve ever known one.”

You blink.

“I already knew that.” The waiter stops in his tracks to stare at you.

“What?” He asks, dumbfounded.

“She’s not even my actual grandmother,” you venture further.

He slowly leans closer to you.

 _“What?”_ He repeats, bewilderment stamped across his entire being. His mouth gapes in epic proportions.

You cannot tell if it’s the excitement of the chase, the jubilation of freedom from Madam Crocker’s suffocating control, the alcohol swirling in your stomach, or even a dizzy lack of oxygen-- but something in his expression causes you to snort. A long, ticklish sound that silences the rest of the clattering on the street. It’s followed by a rib-rattling laugh, and you let it wrack through you, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes as you laugh, and laugh, and laugh a bit more. It’s as if your months upon months of joylessness and empty chuckles are being punished with vengeance.

“If you’re going to act like a loon, do it in the alley where only the vermin will mark you down as ‘off your damn rocker’!” The waiter hisses as he quickly drags you into said alley.

“Sorry, my apologies--” you gasp “--it’s been a long time since I received such a reaction from anyone,” you clasp a hand over your mouth to stifle any more laughter.

“Glad to see you’re taking this complexion seriously,” he mutters.

“You honestly thought I would happily tag along like this if I were loyal to Madam Crocker?” You query onwards. The waiter shifts his weight, a quirk betokening self-consciousness.

“Maybe?” His voice lilts with uncertainty.

“As much as I hate being dragged through the streets with the possibility of a bullet through my temple as a reward, anything is better than staying trapped with Madam Crocker. If I actually liked her, this whole escapade would have been so much more difficult for you,” You chuckle.

“Hu-fucking-zzah, she sympathizes with us! Revel in her endless generosity!” The waiter flings his arms into the air in exasperation, sarcasm dripping from his tone. Your smile momentarily falters at ‘she’ and ‘her.’

“Anyways,” he brushes his suit off as he regains his composure, “unwanted jests aside, we should get back to walking. The others will be worrying,” he tilts his head towards the entrance of the passageway.

“Of course,” you answer after a pause. You squeeze your irritating skirt through the narrow opening, swiping a lazy hand across it before looking up.

A sign from across the street snatches your attention.

An idea blossoms in your brain.

You stride with purpose towards the store.

“Uh… Hallo? Where are you headed?” The waiter calls from the sidewalk.

“Wait for me; I’ll return in a second,” you say.

There’s grumbling behind you, “Is that even the same person I met at the party this evening? What does she think I am, a _servant_ \--?” and footsteps clicking in pace to yours. He must feel obligated to stick by. You disregard him.

The black sign is accented with white lettering, elegant cursive that tends to sicken more than appeal to you. “Women’s Garments,” it reads. You place a careful hand on the knob of the store’s door, then quietly twist it, shouldering your way in.

A small bell chimes as you enter, and you’re grateful to see only one person present: a clerk.

You unfasten the silver pendant from its resting place on your throat as you walk to the counter, clasping it in your palm with sweaty fingers.

“How may I help you, ma’am?” the clerk asks, eyeing your clothing and unkempt appearance with distaste. You hold out the pendant.

“What could I purchase with this?”

The clerk plucks it from your hand, holds it afar, holds it excessively close to his face, and then flicks it, nodding sagely at the consequent ring. He places it down on the counter.

“Anything you’d like from this store.”

You scour the store, focusing particularly on the assortment of corsets. None quite seem to fit your criteria, and disappointment expands in your core more and more as your search produces little to no results.

When all hope seems lost, you spot it. Draped across a chair in the far corner of the store, partially concealed by other clothing. You handle it with clammy hands, eyes sailing over the nearly flat chest and rejoicing in the rectangular, curveless bodice. You rush over to the counter where the clerk is lingering, and lay the corset down in front of him in a grand, euphoric motion. 

  
“I’d like to trade the pendant for this, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, another social studies class (this time apush) smacked me upside the head with inspiration and i churned this beast out in less than two days.... i really ought to stop doing this to myself.... so many multi-chapter fics to write.... so little resolve to stick to ONE dang fic....
> 
> but anyways, i took a stab at writing with a bit of a spin, mainly focusing on trying to make the tone a bit more suitable to the time period (which is around the early 1800s in america, if the tag didn't really help ya)? then again i am no master at historical fiction, writing accurate dialogue with regard to older dialects, or switching up writing styles in general so i'm just going to nervously wring my hands and hope i did alright! i used this site as a big reference for word choice and phrasing: http://celticfringe.net/history/vocab.htm
> 
> moving onwards, i know john's characterization seems a tad... strange. but remember, he's been cooped up with Crocker for QUITE a while-- there are further circumstances involved in this that have yet to be explained, too!
> 
> getting to the bits and bobs here; sorry for any errors! no beta, not looking for a beta, blah bleh bluh i say it every time i post something. since i made this within a smaller time frame, there's no way in hell i didn't miss anything!
> 
> i'm tempted to draw some sketches for a little bit of ~visual support~ for this, but we'll have to see! i'll probably post it on my fic blog, galactic-goat.tumblr.com, and post a link here, if that happens.
> 
> finally, thank you so much for reading! it's been a while since i've written johnkat, and i'm excited to see where i can pull this fic!
> 
> EDIT:  
> i have managed to pump out a few sketches of chapter 1 stuff! if you wanna check out the doodles, there's a link here:  
> http://galactic-goat.tumblr.com/post/131785402967/some-doodles-for-the-first-chapter-my-latest-fic


	2. Waiting For the Pin To Drop

Never have you clung to a purchase so desperately in your lifetime. Swathed thoroughly in brown wrapping paper, it is hidden safely from curious eyes.

The waiter is propped betwixt the sign and the shop’s wall with the pistol tucked in his waistband, slovenly slinking to you as you close the store’s door and step back to the street side.

“You’ve got me graveled as to why the hell it was necessary to dawdle off to go shopping for undergarments,” he spits.

“You’ll see in due time,” you sing back, tapping your nose knowingly. Success and liberation have left you acting like you’re inflicted with serious seasoning; your inhibitions have apparently swooped out the metaphorical window, at least for the moment. The waiter’s left eye twitches.  

“If the others were holding their breath for our grand arrival, they’d be dead!” he grits out, snatching the crook of your elbow and guiding you along the sidewalk.

The remainder of your walk is rather drab, considering earlier events. Time has ticked into the late night, and only the haring stragglers and bumbling drunkards bear witness to your duo. The waiter is venting his gall to the autumn air, cursing your fickle attention span and his own inability to stop your wanderings. He must be a stickler for plans, and a loather of plans-gone-wrong.

You edge to the front of a tenement, two stories of unassuming brick and window.

“At fucking length,” the waiter loudly sighs in relief. The parcel in your hands crinkles insistently.

“Uh…” You trail off, unsure how to broach the subject. His eye finds your nervous face.

“Er,” you try again with the same result. The waiter’s shoulders roll as he heaves a massive sigh.

“If you have something to ask, just say it outright,” he huffs. Ack, he’s clearly never had to mingle with high society for such an extended period, such as you.

You sort through your potential question in your head, plucking a presumptuous word from hither, adhering a phrase thither for manner’s sake, _mind your grammar, for Pete’s sake_ \-- you halt mid-thought.

It occurs to you that this is what you do every time you attempt to converse with Madam Crocker.

“Will there be any time for me to do some, um, _up-keeping_ on my appearance?” You decide to blunder forth with reckless abandon, your first attempt at rebuilding yourself. You still prove yourself a coward, veering around the straightforward truth of the request.

“I believe the only current goal was to bring you here in a timely manner. Since we pretty much shot ourselves in the foot on that front, why not take our chances and push them even further?” The waiter answers, stroking his chin in thought.

“And if we get stopped?”

“Then we do what they request.”

“I truly hope we aren’t stopped, then,” you weakly laugh. One may call you irresponsible for trying to put off the situation at hand, but your mind is revolving around your purchase, your fingers itching to tug it onto your frame.

The waiter’s gaze falls onto the parcel. His brow furrows.

“That must be one hell of a garment,” he muses. You feel a trickle of sweat siddle down your shoulder blades, mauger the chill of the night.

“Well,” he shrugs, looking back towards the entrance of the tenement, “let’s venture onwards.”

“Let’s,” you agree.

His strides are greater than yours, and you have to hurry to keep pace. He opens the door to the building with a subconscious flourish, and ushers you inside before following suit.

The interior walls are echoes of the outside’s: brick and window. A tired employee is hunched at the receptionist’s desk, heavy head propped by a crooked hand. His eyes follow you and the waiter’s path, yet he says nothing as you sweep through the bare lobby.

The hallways are carpeted, cushioned in fabric and accumulated pipe smoke from inhabitants here and gone. The lighting casts harsh shadows across the waiter’s face, and you wonder if your features are capable of painting the same dark shapes across yourself. He leads you to a staircase. The metal steps clang like clockwork as you make your way to the second floor. He sticks in front, glancing backwards upon the unfortunately common exigencies where you gasp for a solid breath, hampered in your corset.

Your heels sing for joy as you step once more onto carpeted floor, this hallway looking shabby in a manner that oddly enough, matches the waiter.

“Room two hundred and sixteen,” said waiter curtly directs you. “On the right.”

You bustle by, pinpointing the chipping paint and splintered wood of the room’s sign and reaching for the knob. Your hand wraps around the cool metal…

_Click._

You were not responsible for that sound.

To your dismay, the resident of the room beside yours, 218, emerges, a man with oval-shaped, gold-rimmed frames that attempt to pull the focus away from his unnatural eyes. He’s notably better dressed than your companion with his demanding red suit, topped with black accents and a white bow tie. A wiry hand combs through his white-blond, curly hair as he continues to be occupied with locking his room’s door. You nearly snort as he finally notices your duo, and his entire body flinches in surprise.

“Well shit,” he splutters, patting the newly formed folds on his suit flat. He crosses his arms, quickly regaining his composure.

“And here I thought I was going to be able to plunder the spoils hidden in your trashy room,” he drawls at the waiter.

“If I actually had died, you’d be the last person I’d bestow anything to in my will,” the waiter smirks.

“You affront me,” the man mockingly pouts. His vermillion gaze, surprisingly restrained, rests on you.

“So, you must be the poor soul who’s had to deal with this chump for the past hour or two,” he muses. ‘ _This man has southern ties_ ,’ you offhandedly note from his accent, still quaking with nervousness and irritation at how close you were to your goal.

“That’s true,” you confirm, unsure how to tread through these unfamiliar waters. This man’s expressions provide some, but not enough to understand his intentions. Despite the talkative tone, his body language is strict and unforgiving. Where you’ve learned about the waiter through his nervous tics and motions, this man has confined himself in self-set boundaries.

Perhaps he’s been trained into this habit for reasons similar to your own.

“We ought to give you a medal for the amount of patience you must have expended, Miss Egbert,” the man says, “I was forced to spend a grand thirty minutes in this man’s presence one time, and I was subjected to so much obscene rambling that I nearly turned my handgun on myself.”

“Like the words coming from your lips aren’t usually the equivalent of the horse shit smeared on the street!” The waiter scoffs.

“You may be speaking with a grain of truth there,” the man shrugs. He is still looking towards you, studying the uncertainty that must be scratched across your face.

“He certainly is a handful,” you belatedly provide, gaining slight confidence from the waiter’s relaxed banter.

“More like a fucking basketful, but that judgement comes from extended experience,” the man offers back, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. Is he warming up to you? You chuckle.

“Ahahah, laugh and gossip about me like two haggish buzzards cramming their gullets with trash, while their words fly out from their asses! See if it bothers me!” The waiter snidely deadpans, his slouch disappearing as he straightens himself for the sake of leverage in height.

“And you!” he exclaims, his pointer finger aiming in your direction. “After all I’ve done for you!”

“Well,” you sheepishly smile, “I hope you find comfort in knowing that I will always be thankful for all the time we spent together with your pistol pushed against my temple.” The waiter stutters, and you can feel your prankster’s gambit making a resurgence from these past few comedy-deprived months-- pulling the carpet from beneath your victims has always been a blast.

“Damn. I sure hope that ‘pistol’ isn’t a euphemism for his penis,” the other man drones.

The waiter all but shrieks, while you double over wheezing, disregarding propriety entirely.

You don’t come up for air for a long while.

As your laughter dies down, so does the conversation.

“So,” the man abruptly changes the subject, “we probably are expected to head to the meeting place, now. I was on my way when I stumbled into you two…”

You feel a flash of panic. Your hand is by the doorknob; you came far too close to turn around and waltz away. The brown package in your other hand’s grasp glares at you. Turning to ask the waiter if your arrival at the meeting can be put on hold, you are cut off by him nodding his head in agreement.

“Er,” you begin.

“Come on, Miss Egbert, we can’t take all day,” the waiter silences your request.

“I, uh, I really am feeling quite fatigued at the moment,” you lie, hunching your shoulders under your company’s curious stares.

“We’ll find you the comfiest chair up in this bitching establishment when we get there,” the other man offers, looking mildly concerned.

“But--”

“Let’s get moving,” the waiter huffs, his patience apparently running thin. He reaches to grab your wrist. Your mind goes blank in the rush of the moment.

You improvise.

“Fuck!” both men shout as they scramble to catch your limp form. The waiter manages to loop his outstretched arm under your shoulders, while the other man works on propping you upright. True to your role, you let your head loll back with closed eyes, keeping your frame as lax as it will allow. The package in your hand thunks to the floor.

“What happened?” the man bites out.

“Fainted,” the waiter says through gritted teeth.

“We should’ve listened to her, man.” One of your arms is looped over someone’s neck.

“Whatever you fucking say, Dave.” An aggressive hand snakes around your waist for extra support. They spend a silent moment sorting through positioning all of your limbs, frustrated grunting replacing any conversation. You hear the crinkle of wrapping paper as one of the men grabs the package from the floor. A pair of footsteps creak as they step back.

“If I hang around any longer, I’m positive the others are going to roast me alive.”

“Well, then get going!” the waiter snaps. He jostles your arm into a better spot as he speaks.

“I’ll give them a heads up as to what happened,” Dave offers.

“Whatever.”

“Later,” he calls before the footsteps ring out again, disappearing as he makes his descent via the staircase.

The waiter lets out a quiet curse before moving. He shifts to wrestle a key from his pocket. The lock clicks open less than a minute later. Your toes glide against the carpet as he drags you inside.

 

* * *

 

The moment the door to the apartment is closed, he unceremoniously drops you.

You yelp as your hands slap against the floor.

“What the hell were you trying to accomplish?” he drills you the moment your gaze rests upwards, onto him.

You gape instead.

“How’d you see through me so quickly?”

“I spent a solid few hours’ time with you; we literally jogged and dodged through the entire city, and you did not gripe or moan about it withal. Do you really think I’d buy into your fainting damsel role so easily!?” he raves, a defendant of his own intelligence.

“Most people would assume it’s reasonable! There’s a widespread belief that women--” you inwardly cringe at this self-referral “--have a stronger tendency to faint!” Not that you buy into such a ridiculous notion… But for argument’s sake.

“Yeah, that only sails with the portion of the public willingly brainwashing themselves with psuedoscience. Baseless drivel through one ear, falsely-justified underestimations out the mouth!” he interrupts his rant to angrily toss your package to where you are slumped. “‘Weaker sex’ my pasty ass! The amount of times a woman has nearly sent me six feet under...!” he grouses under his breath, heels clicking as he strides to a side room; a bedroom, you suppose.

“Do what you must,” he says as he paces by. He must be too tired to pursue an answer to his first question.

Your eyes settle on the package. You hold your breath for what feels akin to eons. Then you scramble upright, on a mission.

Your hands fly to the fabric of your gown and you begin to tug it upwards with ferocity. Progress is quick, and the dress is well above your head before you abruptly recall that you’re not the sole occupant of this apartment.

“So... Was your intention to put on a scandalous show?” Aforementioned occupant flatly calls from the doorway of the bedroom. Your hands are pinned upright by your fabric prison, but you manage to squirm and dance in a manner that accentuates your mortification.

“I-- No-- Goodness, I got carried away in my rush!” You work to wrestle the gown back down and meet his skeptical eyes.

“Of course,” he flatly agrees. You follow his gaze downwards to find that your drawers are still in plain sight.

“Fuck!” You shout in exasperation, a palm freeing itself to clap over your mouth a moment too late. He snorts. He’ll continue to be a terrible influence on you, you can tell from a mile away.

“Could I-- Could you-- Drat, this is awful--” Your tongue serves as an obstacle for your words to trip over.

“What do you need?” He prays bluntly, trying to pull you out of your self-inflicted misery.

“A dress shirt, trousers, proper shoes, and a vest, if you have them,” you gratefully reply.

“Oh… kay?” The waiter’s clearly thrown off by your choice in habiliments. He strolls to the apartment’s door.

“I’ll head off to grab your… things… Also, I’ll have to stop by to alert a few others that aren’t at the meeting that we arrived here wholesome, rather than hacked to pieces by Crocker and her cronies. I may be gone for a bit,” he turns the knob on the door.

“Wait!” you quickly shout for his attention, remembering another item you need.

“Hm?”

“Could you perchance grab some scissors, as well?”

“ _Scissors_?” he incredulously repeats before swinging open the door, and stalking down the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

“A ‘yes’ would have sufficed,” you huff.

You resume your disrobing then, being significantly more considerate of the entrance to the apartment. Once the hoop dress is crumpled on the floor and you’ve given it a solid kick merely because you can, you’re faced with unlacing your corset, which is a trial in and of itself. Your fingers slip across the lace, never granting you purchase until you grow enraged enough to snap one particular crossed portion in half with a dramatic tug. There’s a twinge of regret in your impromptu action, but you blame it more on the cost of the ghastly thing, rather than its ability to be used. The corset slinks off your body like a defeated animal. You offer it a kick too, once it is resting on the floor adjacent to the dress.

Excitedly, you unwrap your new corset, tossing the brown paper gently to the floor once the purchase is safely in your hands.

You forgo taking out the binding strings and relacing them, instead sliding the entire garment over your head and downwards. It still settles on your frame like a dream, resting firmly on your hips without accentuating the pinch of your waist. Your torso looks streamlined and flawless.

‘ _Like a man’s_ ,’ your thoughts helpfully provide. A shiver creeps across your spine.

You head to face a mirror, located in the bedroom. Reaching behind your back and drawing the strings tight, you watch with strange fascination as your chest is squeezed flat between the corset and your breastbone. You pull more and more, enchanted with the suddenly vacant space where your breast once was. At last, you bind the strings, mindful to allow your lungs more space.

You cautiously run a hand down your torso, and are weirdly content to find its path no longer obstructed by unwanted features. Unprompted, the twirl you perform leaves laughter bubbling in your throat, your glee not dissimilar to a small child’s. For the first time in however many years, something feels like it’s clicked into place at long last. The chronic crawling of your skin has taken a well-deserved rest, and your newfound energy is exhilarating.

Your euphoria crashes the moment you hear the door to the apartment click open.

In a desperate motion you grab for the bedroom’s door, but the waiter has already beaten you to the doorway.

“I got the stuff you requested--”

He freezes as he at last sees your state, clenching the acquired scissors with a tight fist, and holding a poised hand over the clothes, which are slung on his shoulder. You wring your fingers, staring with wide, startled eyes.

Silently, he bends and drops the scissors and clothing on the floor of the bedroom. He uprights himself, spins on his heel, and quietly pulls the door shut behind him.

You wait for the apartment’s door to open, to hear footsteps rushing down the hallway as the waiter goes to fetch an asylum worker. It’s the pin that has been waiting to drop since the moment you crossed the street to purchase the corset; it has fallen as soon as the game had begun.

Your listening efforts are not rewarded. You wait more. The pause carries on, pregnant with suspense.

Only when you hear the creak of a floorboard outside, in the apartment’s main room, do you come to the understanding that he is not intent on going anywhere else.

You lunge for the clothing, hammer and tongs, hurriedly unzipping the fly to the old trousers as if they’ll crumble into nonexistence at any given moment. After yanking them with fervor onto your legs and rolling the bottoms to a suitable length, you tie the laces of the shoes with ease. As you reach for the shirt, your unruly hair sweeps across your shoulder. It must have fallen from its precarious position sometime throughout the night. The scissors glint in the corner of your eye.

You finish buttoning your shirt and vest, taking a long while to straighten out the wrinkles, before at last breaking the silence.

“Would you mind if…” You utter with a tiny voice, uncertain and intimidated.

“...If?” the waiter answers through the door, after a lengthy, strained moment.

“If I could come outside, for your assistance?”

There is a tired, exhausted exhale.

“I don’t care.”

You creep towards the door and open it with a solitary click.

He is waiting right outside the bedroom, pretending to be nonchalant when you can easily see he is nervous and confused-- the tapping of his heel against the wooden floor has begun.

A wobbly hand offers the scissors to him, yet he does not budge to take them from you. You refuse to let that discourage you.

“Have you cut hair before?” you ask.

His eyes switch between the scissors and you, back and forward.

“Yes,” he cautiously responds.

“Then… Could you help me cut mine?”

 _Tap, tap, tap,_ the flat of his foot sings out, a substitute for a valid answer. You hold the scissors closer to him, shifting until your eyes are fixed on his, leaving no room to shy away.

“Please.”

His foot steadies.

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

He situates you in a chair by the window, with a cloth draped over your shoulders.

Moonlight streams through, highlighting the waiter’s silhouette as he wanders back with a candle. He rests it on the window’s ledge, then loops around to stand behind you. His hands’ movements are light as they nudge your hair behind your shoulders, fingers combing out the tangles.

“I’m not exactly a barber,” he mutters, “So if this isn’t to your liking you’ll just have to cope with it.”

“I’m sure anything will be perfectly fine,” you console him, a subtle tactic to keep him from discouraging himself.

He bunches your hair into one solid strand and carefully pulls it so it’s taught. The sound of the scissor’s blades twing through the apartment and you scrunch your eyes shut, somewhat nervous, mainly eager.

“I’m gracing you with one last chance to back the hell out of this, just because you’re a mildly tolerable, if not occasionally aggravating person, and this is a big decision.” You keep your eyes closed.  

“Do it.”

With a swift snip, the weight of your hair departs. Impulse urges you to run your hands over your scalp, savoring the shortened strands, yet the waiter stops you in your tracks with a dismissive noise.

“Cutting off over a foot of hair is only the goddamn minimum-- if you don’t want to look like an overgrown ragamuffin with only a penny to their name, let me keep trimming.” There’s a small smile in that voice, some odd sort of fondness that leaves a warmth radiating through your insides.

He separates a smaller strand and straightens it between his fingers, trimming the rough ends with clumsy but determined motions. You settle yourself into the chair, getting comfortable as he picks through your hair and works with the scissors.

“So, it occurred to me that I never learned your name,” you comment. You’re not one to sit around in silence, and this fact had been bothering you in the corner of your mind since your encounter with the waiter’s neighbor, Dave.

“You ask a man to hold scissors by your neck and chop your locks, and you don’t even know his name,” the waiter smirks.

“There wasn’t quite an appropriate time to ask beforehand. So, I am asking now,” you lazily shrug, a movement Madam Crocker would have strung you up by the throat for if she were here. The waiter moves his weight to one hip, mulling consideration over some matter around before finally replying.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” _‘What?’_

“You already know my name, you said it at the party-- oh,” your confusion is cleaved in two. You grace him with a grin, the kind that your old company had always lovingly dubbed as “dopey”. You roll names between your teeth and tongue, settling almost immediately on one.

“John Egbert.”

It was Father’s name, before he passed.

Madam Crocker may have stolen the physical aspects of your inheritance from him, but this is one item she cannot whisk away. The waiter solemnly nods at your answer.

“Karkat Vantas,” he offers in return.

“That’s a bit of an odd name.” You say, twisting your lip. Karkat barks out a laugh, apparently used to the comment.

“People always say that, but in all honestly, it’s one of the least fucked up things about me.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

Karkat motions for you to tilt your head, giving him better access to the area around your forehead. He picks through your hair, trimming what will become bangs, you assume. The excess results of his cutting tickle your nose as he works. Another question prods your brain.

“Why were you so shocked when you walked into the bedroom earlier, anyways? You must have made some sort of conclusion when I asked for trousers and scissors.” Karkat huffs in annoyance.

“Forgive me for not whipping out my apparently nonexistent sleuthing skills the moment you made the request; I didn’t realize that taking charge of you meant exercising my ability to jump to conclusions!” He bristles as he speaks, clearly on the defensive.

“Honestly, what could you have expected?” You egg him further, smugness permeating your voice.

“I took it at a face value, okay?” You raise a brow. He grasps for more words.

“Maybe I assumed you had a neat trick for turning pants into skirts, or some other edgy housewife talent!”

“I was never a housewife,” you wince, taken aback. He is silent as you self-consciously rub your arms and shrink in the chair, discouraged. A significant amount of time creeps by before he releases a defeated exhale.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You swallow the lump in your throat down, remind yourself that--

“You didn’t mean harm,” you accept his apology.

The chatty demeanor has been beaten down, but the shared comfort between you both is undeterred. He rakes his fingers through your sheared hair, making a cut here or there and pausing to consider his next move. The only indicator when he is finished is the sound of metal upon wood as he puts the scissors down.

“I think that’s about it,” Karkat states. He removes the cloth from your shoulders and drops it to the side, then helps you out of the chair. You catch a disdainful stare he gives the pile of hair on the floor.

“Let’s go admire the results!” you chime before grasping his arm to drag him to the bedroom’s mirror.

A knock interrupts the scene. It sounds out a pattern, rapid taps and longer beats. A password, of sorts?

You share a look with Karkat. He clears his throat.

“Uh. Come in.”

The apartment’s door glides open, and a procession slides into the room, men and women alike with business-like movements.

“Dave informed us that there were some complications involving your attendance, so we came to check on you and Miss Egbert,” the woman at the forefront explains. She’s a short, plump, and proper figure complimented by darker garments and a shock of alarmingly short, white-blond hair.

“There are a few matters that could not be held on the backburner; we need you around, Karkat. I’m sorry to intrude in on your apartment, but it’s absolutely necessary to our plans that--” her sharp, violet eyes catch onto you. Whatever else she intended to share is sliced cleanly off from the sentence, darkened lips mid-poise.

“Vantas.” Karkat goes rigid. The usage of last names must be a sign of something rather... unfortunate. The woman does not break her gaze on you, not even to blink.

“What the _hell_ have you allowed our guest to do?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> over 4k words here... dear god...
> 
> i promised myself i'd find the time to finish and post this three weeks ago, but writing out the transitions between scenes proved itself to be a massive pain in the caboose.
> 
> anyways, i hope this was an okay chapter! i've been feeling kind of blue over my writing, so my mood in regards to this chapter are kind of all over the place, ahah. but hey, at least things are actually occurring in this chapter, and it's not 4k words worth of dialogue! that's new!
> 
> and now for the final, ever-present ending line to every fic/chapter i write:  
> thank you so much for reading! :^D
> 
> EDIT: sorry for the false alarm over a new chapter! when i logged in to post to another fic, i didn't realize the page had automatically switched to this one, so i posted it and /then/ realized something was wrong! sorry about that D: D: D:
> 
> EDIT EDIT: [creeps back and changes the floorplan of the tenement b/c technically buildings couldn't be built 6 stories tall in this era... fuck]


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